Not So Wholesome Activities
by harleybanks
Summary: At the tender age of eighteen, the Rowdyruff Boys are ready for more MATURE activities, right? But of course, who said they had to be... wholesome? Some history regarding our favorite boys, complete with sex, drugs, and general misconduct. Needs beta.
1. Part 1

Well, you asked for it: some more characterization of the Rowdyruff Boys. So, here's this little gem. It's been sitting in my head for over a year now, and I've been meaning to actually write it anyway. It's just a little 3-part short to offer some insight into the boys. This is pre-"30 Days", probably around "Bright Green Eyes…" era, but there ARE some changes in the fanon (i.e. No military anymore, ladies and gents. That is way too legit for our boys. ) It's not important, anyway… so, without further ado…

To be honest, I'm not sure how I feel about it. I don't even know if it's right, in regards to characterization and whatnot. It also reads like a Tarantino script – lots of talking, lots of cussing, and general griminess. It was… somewhat intended. :D

Rated M, once again, because bad boys cuss, smoke pot, and go to strip clubs. Better believe it.

Without further ado…

**Part 1**

No one was really sure why the city of Townsville was built around an inactive volcano. Perhaps it was the fresh, fertile soil that inspired the citizens centuries ago to set up camp. Maybe it was just cool to live so close to a fascinating natural formation. Or maybe they just… did. That was entirely possible, considering the city's – er – _peculiar_ style. Nonetheless, no matter what the citizens intentions were for claiming this hotspot as "Townsville," it was the perfect home the crazed, super-intelligent chimp Mojo Jojo. His volcano top conservatory, nestled above the useful power source of lava, held all his "brilliant" creations, from his numerous unused death rays, many disabled robots, and, in one very messy room, arguably his greatest invention, The Rowdyruff Boys.

Thirteen years ago, Mojo created these boys with the same purpose as all his other inventions: to destroy the Powerpuff Girls. But, just like the rest of his creations, they failed miserably and were obliterated by mere kisses from the Girls. Later, though, the boys were brought back by the notorious Him, with the same purpose as before, but with a new touch of evil. Then, as luck would have it, they failed again, they're twisted, little boy prides handed back to them in a pink envelope, sealed with a kiss, love Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup. Soon after, they became nothing more than washed-up hoodlums, as powerful as their counterparts, but about as dangerous as the juvenile delinquents the Gangrene Gang. Like all of Mojo's prized inventions, they took up space in a tiny room in the chimp's lair, sleeping amongst the dust and getting into occasional scraps with their archenemies.

Not that the boys actually cared anymore. Now, at the tender age of eighteen (biologically, not technically, considering they were born about age five), there was very little they cared about. Any fight nowadays with the Girls was just a formality, just something to keep things interesting in all of their lives. The idea of destruction and world domination was not really their thing – that was their "dad's" plan. They would prefer to enjoy their lives while they could, and any moment of evil was just something fun to do.

At the moment, the three boys sat about their room… if you could call it that. Mojo, secretly a better father than one would think, tried to make a humble abode for his "sons," but they made damn sure they made it their own before settling in. Food wrappers, magazines, cigarette butts, broken bottles, a whole lot of trashed objects littered the floor with graffiti and dirt smeared onto the walls and the cracked windows yellowing with dust. Christmas lights strung around the ceiling, red, green, and blue, the only source of light besides the shattered lamp on the floor. Butch and Boomer shared a wooden bunk bed, though Butch had smashed Boomer's bed during one particularly brutal scrap between them, so, now Boomer slept on a homemade hammock he carefully put up every night before he slept. Brick took over the only bed in the corner, a large pallet of silky maroon blankets and pillows on three mattresses on the floor. Butch did have a little nest on the top bunk, but he usually just fell asleep wherever the hell he passed out every night.

Butch blew out a thick puff of smoke, closing his stark green eyes, and collapsed on the tarnished suede heap they called a couch near the door. His short, black hair lay in tangled locks down to his eyebrows, and he wore a white muscle shirt his usual torn-up blue jeans. He made no effort to cover the dark bruises on his muscles, since they were more of a prized token than anything else he had. The tangy, bittersweet aroma clouded around his face, and he grinned. Nothing beat a long day of laziness like the taste of weed. To be fair, Butch was already buzzed on a blunt from earlier, but what the hell? What else was there to do when you're a Rowdyruff Boy besides do stupid shit and get your ass beat by the fucking Powerpuff Girls? Nothing, that's what. His brothers usually had other things to do, but Butch was perfectly content to sit around, blaze up, and have fun.

"Boomer!" Butch wheezed. "Hey! Fucknut!"

"What?" Boomer spat, glancing at him from across the room.

"Want some?" Butch asked, holding up his half-smoked joint.

"No, thanks," Boomer mumbled. His blonde hair had darkened somewhat, though he kept the shag that curtained past his nose. He was wearing his usual layers, a short-sleeve over a long-sleeve, even if it was warm in their room. Butch said something insulting to him, but he really wasn't paying attention. Instead he was sitting in a corner, several feet away from his brother, tinkering with some contraption. That's about all he did nowadays – tinker with stuff. After years of bullying from his brothers, he spent as much time as possible not speaking and avoiding any real confrontation with anyone. Why should he? He'd only get tormented and picked on again. That stuff really gets to a person, no matter how "evil" they were supposed to be. So Boomer spent a lot of time with his own thoughts, minding his own business, and… well… being bored out of his mind. Though thanks to a surprisingly kind gesture from Mojo a few days ago, Boomer was given a broken laser gun and some tools to toy around with. What was even more surprising was how fascinated he was by it, intrigued by all the tiny mechanical intricacies and organized chaos of the wires. He actually understood it all, too, and he was glad to finally understand something so seemingly inscrutable. He especially took pride in the fact that neither Brick nor Butch could understand it. That was pretty much all that mattered, anyway.

"Brick!" Butch called, another puff of smoke billowing out of his nostrils. Brick was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling fingering his signature maroon baseball cap. His long red hair clung to his simple black shirt, spiraling all the way to his waist. He gave Butch the slightest acknowledgement, his fiery eyes flickering.

"You know you wanna taste…" Butch teased, waving the joint in the air.

"You will bring that shit _to_ me," Brick said, his voice as crisp as ice. Butch rolled his bloodshot eyes, and crawled off the couch and drifted over to his brother. He handed the joint over, and Brick plucked it from his fingers. He looked at it, his nose wrinkling.

"What the hell is this?" he asked.

"Weed, man, what else would it be?" Butch said, leaning against the bunk bed.

"It smells like shit," Brick grimaced. He took a hit anyway, holding in the smoke for a moment, and then slowly exhaling it. He gave it back to Butch, who promptly popped it in his mouth.

"I'm gonna join the mafia," Brick said suddenly, tossing his cap aside and lacing his fingers behind his head.

"Why would you wanna do that?" Butch asked. He floated over to his bunk and curled up amongst his bedding. He shielded his eyes from the sun.

"Sounds fun," Brick said with a shrug. "I get to dress all snazzy, pick up hot mobster babes, steal stuff. Pretty much what we do now, except, you know, better."

"That sounds shitty as hell," Butch grumbled. He crushed his joint on the bunk frame and tossed the butt on the floor. "That's way too nice. 'Cept I do like the babes part…"

"You would," Brick said. "It's 'cause you're not getting any."

"Shut up," Butch sneered.

"It's true," Brick's lips curled unpleasantly. "But I guess we can't all be me, can we?"

"Don't you have a girlfriend?" Boomer piped up. He glanced at his brothers, a look of apprehension plastered on his face. Brick looked up, narrowing his eyes.

"Who asked you?" he snapped. Boomer didn't look back, instead focusing on a little spring in the laser gun's handle. Brick sat up, his hair fluttering down his back. He reached over to the floor and picked up a fraying baseball out of a pile of trash. He then hurled it at Boomer, knocking him hard right on the head. The gun fell from his hands, and Butch burst into a fit of laughter.

"Son of a bitch!" Boomer cried. He rubbed his head furiously. He could feel a small egg already forming, but it felt a lot worse with Butch cackling up in his bunk.

"You only talk when I tell you to, bitch," Brick said with a nasty smirk.

"Fuck you," Boomer groaned. His hand dropped down and he massaged the back of his neck.

"Hey, if you act like a bitch, I'll treat you as such," Brick leered.

"I'm not a bitch!" Boomer yelled over his arm.

"Then don't act like one!" Brick yelled back. Butch was now gasping for air, and Boomer swiped up the gun from the floor and went back to work. His head throbbed, but it was better than listening to his brothers.

"Besides," Brick continued, lying back down. "I wouldn't call Princess a girlfriend as much as a piece."

"_EWWWW!_" Butch roared, rolling over in his bed and hanging off the edge upside down. "Princess is so gross. Ughhh, that voice! She makes me wanna rip my ears off!"

Brick laughed. "Slap a gag on her, she's just fine."

Butch made a noise, then snickered to himself. Then he reached over to a small hole in the wall next to him. He pulled out a small baggy and a tiny box of folding paper. He started rolling another joint, and Brick looked up at him with a frown.

"You know, you're gonna smoke up all your ambition before you reach twenty-one," he chided.

"What ambition?" Butch chuckled, carefully twisting the paper between his fingers. Brick rolled his eyes. He grabbed his hat and dropped it over his face. He sniffled.

"Anyways, the mafia," he said, his voice slightly muffled. "That would be so… righteous. Seriously. And I can make a lot of money just doing some 'favors.' I like money. I can actually buy things instead of stealing it all the time."

"But I like stealing," Butch said.

"Yeah, but I'm awfully sick of getting my ass whooped every time I want a Coke," Brick snapped. He yanked his cap off his face and sat up, folding his arms across his chest. "God, I hate those bitches. All they fucking do is get in my way. The monkey's right."

Butch grinned. "Gimme ten minutes with each of 'em, and they'll never get in the way again."

Brick immediately whomped his brother on the head, and Butch rolled into the air laughing.

"Now, _that's_ gross," Brick said. "Don't you _ever_ joke about that shit! _Ever!_ We wouldn't touch the Puffs with a ten-foot-pole besides socking their faces in, so you _will_ shut the fuck up!"

"Hey, a guy can dream, right?" Butch shrugged. His eyes sparkled, mystified. "They're like… the ultimate prize. Untouchable. Gettin' one of them is like… gettin' a goddess. You'd make history, man."

Brick's mouth hung, and one eyebrow twitched dangerously. He spoke slowly, "If you weren't so blown, I would kill you. You're talking out of your ass."

"Maaaaybe," Butch whirled around and landed softly on the floor. He placed the joint in his mouth and reached in his pocket for his lighter.

"That's it!" Brick leapt up into the air. He knocked the joint out of Butch's mouth and grabbed him by his hair. He lifted him up, ripping several chunks of hair out of his head. Butch yelped and clawed at Brick's hand. Brick turned to Boomer.

"You, too, bitch," he barked. He let go of Butch, shoving him towards the exit. "We're leaving."

"Where're we going?" Boomer glanced up at his brothers.

"To knock some sense into you losers," Brick said. "We're going to the club."


	2. Part 2

**Part 2**

"I love you, Brick," Butch moaned, as before him a barely legal, half naked dancer did an impossible twist down a pole, heavily lit by neon lights and a hazy spotlight. An incoherent beat pumped through the speakers as the scent of sour liquor and stale perfume wafted through Butch's nostrils. He licked his lips, almost tasting the sweat dripping down the girl's skin. He blew out a puff of cigarette smoke and leaned back in his chair. Brick smirked at him.

"I know you do," Brick chuckled. He watched his brother gaped at the dancers, eyelids drooping and a stupid smile on his face. His other brother, though, sulked next to him trying very hard to look anywhere but at the girls. Brick snorted, disappointed by Boomer's lack of interest. Not that Brick was much of a stripper fan either, but he was really hoping his brother would show some hope of _not_ being gay or something.

To be fair, this club itself was not particularly… clean? Aptly named "The Gutter," it was located in the very heart of the red light district of Townsville, and was filled to the brim with sleazy conmen, freshly paroled felons, the occasional businessman escaping his dead-end life, and of course, underground crooks. Brick was completely positive that the joint was a racket, having taken almost obsessive tabs on the place since he first discovered it. He wasn't kidding about the mafia thing – he really wanted in on it, and this looked like just to place to at least make an acquaintance. Unfortunately, there didn't seen to be any likely mobsters at the moment, but they had time to wait. Besides, it gave Butch something to do (quite literally) and maybe Boomer, if they play their cards right.

Just then, a cute, dark-haired waitress strolled over, notepad in one hand and an unpleasant look on her face.

"What d'ya want, boys?" she huffed. She pulled a pen out from her pocket and clicked it. Brick's eyebrows flickered.

"I think I'll have a big smile and a little less sass, please," Brick said sharply. "I'll even pay extra."

At this snide comment, Butch tore his eyes from the dancer and turned to his brother. He grinned.

"What did you just say to her?" he asked, starting to laugh.

The girl was naturally not pleased. She placed a hand on her hip and wrinkled her nose.

"Are you even old enough to be here?" she questioned. "I need to see some ID."

"Are you even old enough to serve us?" Butch snapped back, eager to get in on the insults. "I think _we_ need to see some ID. Or your snatch."

"Excuse me?" The waitress exclaimed. Butch beamed.

"Well, see, my brother here—" Butch suddenly wrapped an arm around Boomer, who practically jumped a mile out of his seat. "—my brother can tell how old you are just by looking at your snatch. He is an expert snatch-reader, lemme tell ya. Hell, he's so good, he could be a carnie with his skills. All he has to do is pitch a tent, and ya'll'd come over, show 'im your snatch, and he'd be the best carnie there ever was."

During this whole exchange, Boomer squirmed and shook his head violently while Brick almost imploded with repressed laughter. The girl, though, looked completely disgusted. She looked at Boomer silently begging her not to believe his brother. For a second, he actually thought it worked as she smiled. Then, her smile faded into a grimace, and she slapped her notepad shut. She was about to stomp away, too, before Brick reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. She stopped.

"We're just fucking with you, toots," Brick said as nice as possible. "Three beers, keep the change. Go buy yourself something to smile about."

The waitress pursed her lips, then took the bill and skipped over to the bar, her walk significantly lighter.

"Butch, man, I never get tired of your carnie routine," Brick snickered finally, joining in Butch's hearty laughter.

"It's only good when Boomer's the snatch-reader, though," Butch said, jabbing Boomer in the arm. Boomer rolled his eyes and went back to staring at the table, his cheeks dark red. After the laughter subsided, Butch went back to watching the dancers, a new song blasting through the speakers now.

"So who's the lucky lady, Boomer?" Brick asked, leaning forward in his seat. Boomer glanced at him.

"What?"

"You know why we're here," Brick said. "I'm sick of you sulkin' around like a tightwad irritating the fuck out of me and giving all of us a bad name. So we're gonna put some spring in your pants and get you laid. So who do you want to bang?"

"I'm partial to Barely-Legal Acrobat Girl myself," Butch said simply. "She seems ffffflexible."

"No. I'm not doing this," Boomer protested immediately.

"Yes you are," Brick said, sounding as if there was no doubt in his mind this was going to happen.

"No," Boomer repeated. "I'm not."

"Why not?" Brick demanded, his voice frothing with menace.

"Because!" Boomer cried. "Because I don't want to, that's why not."

"Why don't you?" Brick urged, sounding more menacing with each word. But Boomer, surprisingly, wasn't having any of it.

"Because I don't want to fuck a whore, Brick," Boomer spat.

"Why not? What's wrong with these girls? They're clean, mostly, and it's their job. They're paid for this shit," Brick tried to reason. Boomer snorted.

"I don't care. I don't want to do it."

"Why not?" Brick demanded once more.

"I just said!" Boomer's hands flailed in the air.

"No, you tell me why not."

"Because!"

"Because why not?"

"Because I said no!"

"You're a fag!" Brick growled.

"Am not!" Boomer growled back.

"Bitch, you are so gay if you don't want to fuck a girl," Butch added, not even looking at his brothers.

"I said I don't want to fuck a _whore_!" Boomer roared. "Not… I don't… wanna fuck any girl…I guess…"

"Oh, thank God!" Brick sighed, looking up graciously, though he still didn't look satisfied. "So why not a whore?"

"Because!" Boomer whined, tired of defending himself. "Because it's… it's… degrading. It's degrading to pay some girl to sleep with you. Hell, it's degrading just to be here making all these girls dance for you like… like cheap entertainment. Not that it's always _that_ cheap or anything, it's just… H-how many of these girls want to do this? How many of them are… are just in a… desperate situation and this is the best they can do? I mean, paying them to fuck or dance or whatever is just furthering the idea that it's okay to lose your dignity for easy money. It's taking advantage of someone desperate enough to open themselves up to your insults, your _bullshit_ just to make a buck. They don't have to take your shit, but every penny you throw at them makes them think they do. And in the meantime, you look like a pathetic fuck because you can't do any better but to pick on or sleep with some innocent girl just to make yourself feel better. That's bullshit, and honestly, that's some bullshit I don't want any part of. So thanks, but no thanks… Bro."

Boomer heaved, his cheek twitching strangely. Butch had actually turned to Boomer halfway through the rant, concerned.

"Where the fuck did that come from?" he asked.

Boomer didn't reply, but instead stared at Brick, who unfortunately looked absolutely appalled. Boomer caught Brick's eye, and a sudden burst of fear exploded in his stomach. His face faltered a bit as he tried very hard to remain unaffected by his brother's terrifying gaze. Brick's lip started to curl as he opened his mouth to speak.

"A pathetic fuck," Brick repeated icily.

"…Yeah," Boomer whimpered, his voice cracking.

"Really…"

"…Yeah."

Then… strangely… Brick's expression softened. The corner of his mouth rose a bit. But Boomer had completely succumbed to the fear in stomach, knowing well that Brick smiling wasn't always a good thing. He gulped and stared at his wringing hands.

"Did you ever consider those pathetic fucks are just rewarding the girls for growing a backbone?" Brick asked carefully.

"The girls wouldn't need a backbone if they guys just treated them nicely," Boomer replied quietly.

Brick considered the idea. Then, he sat back in his seat, lacing his fingers together thoughtfully. Boomer reached up to rub his neck, unsure of how next to respond. The pulsing beat came to an end, and Butch turned away from the dancers. He eyed his brothers, confused.

"Did I miss something?

At that moment, the cute waitress from before arrived behind them with their drinks. She placed a beer in front of each of the boys, and suddenly, she placed another in front of Butch. Brick snapped out of his thoughts for a second to comment.

"He didn't order two," he said.

"To the funny kid," the waitress said smoothly. "With love from the woman at the bar."

Butch perked up, turning around in his seat to face to waitress. He stretched his neck out, searching past her at the bar. He couldn't see very well through the dimly-lit room. "What? Who? Where? Why?"

"She heard me telling the bartender about your little carnie gag, and she thought it was clever."

"Me?" Butch croaked. "Funny? Clever?" He glanced at Brick. "Me. Funny. And clever."

"She also wants to, uh, meet you," the waitress added with a small smile. "Go see her when you get a chance."

"How will I know who she is?" Butch asked.

"How about you take a page from snatch-reader's book and pitch a tent?" she suggested, glancing at Boomer. "I'm sure she'll find you then."

Then, she winked at Boomer. Boomer returned the wink with a puzzled look. And with that, the girl turned on her heel and strolled over to another table. Butch smiled to himself, settling back into his seat. Boomer still gaped at the girl, mildly confused.

Butch caressed his beer mugs, the smile on his face widening. His fingers started to tremble as he gripped the handles. Then, without a second thought, he chugged both classes one after the other. He slammed the glasses back on the table; almost shattering them. His whole body was trembling now, shaking the table violently. Brick lifted his own glass, frowning.

"God, that's annoying," Brick muttered.

"Well," Butch started, scooting out of his chair and standing up. "If you boys don't mind, I'll be back tomorrow, kay?"

"Yeah," Brick spat. "See you tonight."

Butch ignored his brother's retort and zipped over to the bar, leaving a dark green blaze in his wake. Brick stared after him, his upper lip curling. Meanwhile, Boomer twirled his mug in circles, still thinking about the waitress. Brick glanced at him. He scoffed.

"You drink it, Boomer, not spin it," he chided.

"Sorry," Boomer mumbled, stopping so abruptly a few drops of beer spilled onto the table. He didn't notice, still looking off in the distance. Brick rolled his eyes. Then, Boomer's expression changed.

"Those guys look a little too fancy to be here," he said. Brick perked up and followed his brother's gaze. He smirked.

"No kidding…"

Three men had just walked into the club, all snappily dressed in carefully pressed leisure suits. The shortest one was heavy-set, balding, and had a rather jolly demeanor, like an old, friendly relative. The tallest one was almost the exact opposite: lean, carefully slicked curls, and a permanent sneer on his face. The last one was definitely the youngest, at least a few years older than Brick. He had silky dark hair, complementing sharp features, but he seemed very composed. All three, however, shared the same expectant look on their faces. Within seconds, one of the waitresses greeted them and took them to a booth in the back. Before taking a seat, the youngest one gently pulled the waitress aside and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, and headed straight to a door behind the door. Seeing all this, Brick looked gratefully up to the heavens.

"The gangsters are in the house," he sighed. Then he turned to Boomer. "You sit tight, bitch, unless one of those girls insists on taking you home. You hear me?"

Boomer narrowed his eyes at Brick. He didn't respond.

"Good," Brick said. "I'll be back. Eventually."

He stood up and quickly smoothed out his shirt. He shook the tangles out of his hair and repositioned his baseball cap. He looked around, searching for some type of mirror. When he found none, Brick snorted and turned away. Then he floated across the club to the gangsters' booth, leaving Boomer listlessly ripping apart his straw wrapper.


	3. Part 3

**Part 3**

If it weren't for his superpowers literally keeping him balanced, Butch probably would've stumbled on his way across the club. He approached the bar and immediately gripped a stool to steady himself. He hovered barely an inch off the floor, his feet anxiously tapping the tile. He really ought to get a hold of this excited trembling tick of his, but that would, you know, require energy. Energy that could be going to other things, in fact, like finding this mysterious woman. Butch eyed the suspects at the bar, but again, the smoky fog and dimmed lights made his search a little more difficult.

"Looking for me?"

Butch turned and squinted at the far corner of the bar… and his mouth dropped.

There were no words that could possibly describe the wicked vixen sitting before him, her milky thighs encased in black fishnet, her snaking curves barely contained in a maroon corset and matching leather jacket, and her hair – _her hair! – _twisting wildly around her heart-shaped face like a nest of vipers. She was definitely much older than Butch, but so what? Her ruby lips curled into a venomous smile as her gold-specked green eyes sparkled dangerously in his direction.

Butch's knees buckled with an intense, painful shudder. Then, somehow, he used whatever leftover energy he had to make his way to the stool next to the woman. He sat, careful not to give away the circus in his jeans. He clutched the bar, his nerves still mercilessly shaking his body. Finally, he smiled back.

"So you're the comedian, huh?" the woman said, her voice like a silky, dark chocolate truffle. Butch licked his lips.

"Yes. Yes I am," he choked. Then, for whatever reason, he held out his hand. The woman's perfect eyebrows flickered. For a second, Butch completely regretted even coming over here. Then, the woman shrugged and took his hand. She shook it once and let go with another eyebrow flicker. Butch practically moaned.

"Ima," the woman purred.

"You're a…?" Butch rumbled.

"My name. It's Ima," she said, smirking.

"Oh," Butch said. He gasped. "OH! Yeah, names. I'm, uh, Butch."

"Short and sweet," Ima laughed. "I like it."

"Yeah, that's me!" Butch said sheepishly. "Short and sweet! Wait—"

Ima laughed, her head thrusting up happily. Butch felt all the blood rush from his pants up to his cheeks. He sank in his seat, letting go of the bar. He stopped trembling, at least. Ima looked back at him, her eyes moist with tears. She made a sympathetic face.

"What's wrong, Butch?" she asked softly. Butch shook his head and forced a smile back on his face.

"Nothing," he lied. "Nothing at all."

"Good," Ima said. "You're too cute to have anything wrong."

Butch looked at her, his face blank. Ima smiled and grabbed her drink. She took a sip, licking a drop of pina colada off her lips. Butch sat up a bit.

"Well, you, Ima, you're…" Butch started, suddenly feeling his already limited vocabulary slip right out of his head. "You're… not too bad yourself."

Ima's smile faltered. Again, Butch's cheeks flushed. He sighed, momentarily considering what other stupid thing he could possibly say right now. Then he wondered how the hell he got himself into this. More importantly, how could he get himself _out_?

"Full of jokes," Ima commented, her smile returning. "How many jokes do you have, funny man?"

"Plenty," Butch said. He chuckled darkly. "I am a walking stand-up routine, if I do say so myself."

Once again, Ima thrust her head back with a great, boisterous laugh. But this time, Butch didn't feel any embarrassment. On the contrary, he felt a strange sense of accomplishment. Holy shit, he made a funny! Maybe? Yes? Kind of?

"You are hilarious!" Ima answered for him. She leaned forward, grazing her long fingernails along Butch's knee. Butch smirked, feeling the blood return to its proper place. Ima's eyes glittered as she leaned on her knee, noticeably thrusting her chest out. Butch tried very hard not to let his eyes wander too much. Not that Ima seemed the type to mind…

"With a sense of humor like that, you must have all the girls after you, huh?" Ima asked sweetly.

"Yeah, I'd say so," Butch scoffed, looking away smugly.

"Really?" Ima grinned.

"Better believe it."

"Heh," Ima chuckled. "Well… I don't."

Butch's smug expression cut to a frown so fast, his cheeks hurt. He looked at Ima, the smile on her face looking more malicious by the second. Butch shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"What… what's that supposed to mean?" Butch asked quietly.

"You're lying," Ima replied, her voice too sweet to match her words. "I don't think you have any girls after you, Butch."

"Yeah?" Butch instinctively sat up, a spike of rage tightening his muscles. "Well, what the fuck do you know, Ima?"

"Roar," Ima purred, her eyes glittering once more. "Well, if your chauvinistic jokes and lack of comfort in front of beautiful women are anything, I'd say you're probably still a virgin, at least."

"Fuck you!" Butch spat, sitting up so fast he knocked the stool under him to the floor. Ima didn't even flinch. Instead, she simply stared up at him, mildly amused. Butch glared at her.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Ima said.

"I said fuck you!" Butch sneered.

"And you don't like it, do you?"

"Fuck. You."

"Do you want to change it?"

"F—" Butch stopped. He stared at Ima, seething. Still, Ima looked unfazed. For almost a minute, they stared each other down, Ima patiently waiting for Butch to respond. Finally, Butch picked the stool off the ground and sat, not once taking his eyes off her. Ima grinned, leaning back into her seat. She grabbed her drink.

"I thought so," she whispered, taking a sip.

"So, what are you gonna do?" Butch asked slowly, picking at a loose piece of plastic on the bar.

"Teach you how to act like less of a boy and more like a man," Ima said simply. Butch clicked his tongue.

"What are you, a sex shrink or something? A whore? What's in it for you?" Butch demanded, not even looking at her. Ima twirled one of her snaky locks.

"I get laid," Ima snorted. "Oh, and there's one less prick in the world who thinks he's a womanizer when really, he's just a prick."

Butch snapped the plastic off the bar. He snickered. "Yeah, thanks."

"And hey…" Ima leaned forward again, closer, her face inches from Butch's. Her hand slithered up his thigh, flames bursting in his lower gut. He jumped, snatching Ima's hand away. Ima smiled sheepishly.

"…maybe you can learn to channel that anger elsewhere."

"When?" Butch snapped. "When are we doing this?"

Ima leaned back, still clutching Butch's hand. "Now, if you'd like."

"Yes, please," Butch said leaping out of his stool, knocking it over again, and dragging Ima with him. She pulled out of his grasp and looked at him, amused by his enthusiasm. She chuckled.

"We can leave now under one condition," Ima said.

"Anything," Butch said quickly. "Anything at all. What? What is it?"

"I want you to call me by my… nickname," Ima said softly.

"And that is?" Butch urged.

"Sedusa."

A chill ran up Butch's spine. He stared at her, shocked that he didn't recognize her before. The villains of Townsville didn't exactly all know one another, their only relations being villainy and their obstacle of villainy the Powerpuff Girls. That didn't mean that they didn't know _of_ each other, though. Infamy is still fame. And every now and then, the villains did run into each other at some point in time, through prison, simultaneous battles with the Girls, or just plain happenstance. Butch had never personally met Sedusa before, though he knew all about her. She was renowned as a burglar, a master of disguise, an arch-villainess… and a heartbreaker.

Butch succumbed to another intense bout of trembling.

"Alright, Sedusa, your place or mine?"

Brick was rarely nervous. In fact, he couldn't remember _ever_ being nervous, or any synonymous version of the feeling. So right now, the uncomfortable tingling in his chest was exacerbated by not only the unfamiliarity, but the disgusting idea of _feeling_. Brick immediately despised it. He didn't like to feel anything, really. Feelings led to emotions, which led to complications, which led to not thinking, which led to disaster. Brick didn't do disaster. Not unless he meant it, that is. In conclusion, Brick did not like the idea of this ending in disaster. But instead of dwelling on feeling weak, Brick instinctively channeled his nerves into the next best thing: imperceptible pretend self-confidence.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Brick said coolly, hands behind his back, the moment he approached the table. The three well-dressed men looked up at him, each with a unique expression of "who the hell are you?" To be fair, the jollier man's face seemed more "who might you be, good sir?", but Brick was still put off slightly. He quickly recomposed himself, clearing his throat.

"My name is Brick," he introduced himself. "And I couldn't help but notice you gentlemen coming into this lovely establishment. Now, I apologize ahead of time if my judgment is incorrect, but if I _am_ correct, I would say that you are part of a… _particular_ line of business. Yes?"

"Beat it, kid," the curly-haired man hissed. Brick chuckled.

"I'm sorry, but if you would please give me a chance to explain, I—"

"Are you deaf?" the curly-haired man quipped. "Or are you just stupid? I said beat it!"

"I am interested in your business," Brick continued, undeterred. "And I believe after I show you what I have to offer, you'll be interested in _my_ business."

"I _said_," the curly-haired man started, dragging out the last word. "Beat it!"

"_Attendi,_ Tomas," the youngest one said quietly. He turned to Brick. "Brick? That's your name, right?"

"Yes," Brick said, nodding graciously at the youngest man. The man laced his fingers and leaned forward. "So… what business do you speak of?"

"_The_ business," Brick urged. He leaned forward. "You know, the one that I wouldn't be asking about if I didn't know I would get shot otherwise."

"…So you wanna be an actor?"

Tomas, the curly-haired one, and the heavy-set one burst into laughter, the young one smirking to himself. Brick froze, deciding precisely how to react. If he was right about these men, they were just messing with him. If he was wrong, then they were assholes who were just messing with him. Regardless, he was being messed with, and Brick was not happy about this. And since he refused to think he was wrong, he smiled and pursued the topic.

"Well, if the job calls for acting, I'm more than happy to oblige," Brick said with a shrug. "However, I'm just here to offer my services."

"Oh, you're an escort!" the young man exclaimed, making the others simply howl. "Oh, man, I'm sorry. But we're not interested. Thank you, but no."

"I want to join the mafia," Brick growled.

The men stopped laughing immediately. They exchanged a series of grave looks, and then the young man narrowed his eyes and brought his hands to his chin, while the others glared at Brick. Brick smirked. He _was_ right.

"_Chi sei?_" the youngest man asked.

"Italian," Brick chuckled. "Ah, _désolée. Je ne parle pas d'italien. Mais je parle le français!"_

"I asked who you were," the young man translated. "Because if you're a cop or something, we can't help you."

"No, no, on the contrary," Brick laughed. "Like I said, I want to offer my services. You can search me. Background check. I don't know. Whatever the fuck you guys do. But you look like wise guys, and I want to be one, too."

"What can you offer us, _frocio_?" Tomas sneered. "Hair care products? Fashion tips? What does a French son-of-a-bitch have to offer us?"

Then, with a single blink, Brick incinerated Tomas' drink into a pile of wine and ashes. At first, it was an accident, an involuntary reaction that Brick almost regretted right away. But after seeing the looks on Italians' faces, Brick smiled triumphantly.

"Super powers."

Tomas and the heavy-set man turned to the youngest man, who looked up at Brick. The young man glanced at the pile of ashes, then back at Brick. He nodded, stood up, and held out his hand.

"Giuseppe Guerelli of the Guerelli family. _Piacere, mio fratellino_."

Boomer considered leaving. With his brothers officially occupied, he figured no one would notice if he left. And when they did come home and see him, Brick would probably punch him in the face for being a loser and Butch would laugh at them, as usual. This wasn't the first time this whole "let's try and get Boomer some action" thing happened anyway. But for whatever reason, Boomer stayed at the table, shredding a straw wrapper, and occasionally forcing down a sip of beer. Maybe if he sat here and pretended to be interested in the life around him, Brick would show some mercy on him later. Not that sitting there doing nothing qualified for "being interested in the life around him," but—

"Hey you."

Boomer looked up to see the cute waitress, peering down at him with a small smile. Boomer gulped and returned an awkward smile. The waitress glanced around her, and then turned back to Boomer. She gestured to Butch's empty seat.

"Anyone sitting here?" she asked. Boomer shook his head.

"Do you mind?"

Boomer shook his head again.

The waitress sat and gazed at Boomer, who tried very hard to look anywhere but at her. The waitress sighed, collapsing into her arms on the table. Boomer finally looked at her, concerned.

"A-are you okay?" Boomer stammered.

"I'm fine," the girl grunted. "I'm just tired, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess," Boomer shrugged.

"You know, this job isn't easy. Always on your feet, working all these weird hours, dealing with idiots all the time…" the waitress looked at Boomer. Boomer looked at her fearfully, unsure of what to say.

"Do you have a job?" the waitress asked.

"No," Boomer replied.

"Ah, so you _wouldn't_ know," she laughed.

"No, I guess not," Boomer agreed. There was a short silence, the waitress waiting patiently for Boomer to do something. Anything.

"So where'd the other guys go? One of them's your brother, right?" she finally asked him.

"Um," Boomer started, glancing across the room at Brick, who was now sitting before the group of gentlemen, talking animatedly. He glanced at the bar, but saw no sign of Butch. Boomer shrugged. "They're both my brothers. One's over there, talking. I don't know where the other one went."

"Oh," the waitress mustered. Boomer stopped shredding the straw wrapper and moved onto stirring his watered down beer. The waitress watched him, her small smile fading. Still, Boomer tried to look anywhere but at her. To be honest, he really wished that she would just go. He didn't have anything to say, or, to be precise, he didn't _know_ what to say. So he said nothing. But from the looks of it, the waitress wasn't done with him yet.

"You don't talk much, do you?" she asked, scooting a little closer to him. Boomer glanced at her.

"…No?"

"Why not?"

"…What do you mean why not?"

"Why don't you talk?"

"…You're asking me why I don't talk?"

"Oh, come on, are you really this socially awkward?" the waitress retorted, furrowing her eyebrows. Boomer glanced at her again, and then, he didn't look away. Her expression was just too… cute.

"I don't know what to say ever," Boomer admitted. "So… yeah."

"You looked like you had a lot to say to your brother earlier," the girl said, grinning.

"Yeah, well, that's because he's an asshole," Boomer said quietly, glancing at Brick.

"I'd drink to that!" the girl exclaimed with a laugh that sounded very much like bells tingling softly. Boomer found himself smirking, as the girl continued. "Well, okay, I'd drink if I did actually drink."

"You don't?" Boomer asked.

"Oh, God, no!" the girl said, making a face. "It smells awful. And I refuse to try the stuff. And you start to hate that stuff when you already smell like it all the time."

"No, kidding," Boomer commented, mildly surprised.

"I know, right?" the girl said with a shrug. "And I don't dance. I don't do any of this stuff here. It's just… it's not me."

"No, kidding!" Boomer repeated, more surprised. "Then why do you work here?"

"It's all I could get," the girl replied sadly. "The economy sucks. Not even Hotdog on a Skewer was hiring!"

"Wow," Boomer said.

"Yeah," the girl sniffled. "I hate it here. It's so… gross. And dirty. And—" she smiled at Boomer. "What was the word you used? 'Degrading?'"

"Oh," Boomer whispered. "Yeah. Degrading."

"Thank you, by the way," the girl said.

"For what?" Boomer asked, flabbergasted.

"For saying all that!" the girl replied. "Do you know how many guys come in here and just treat us like garbage? There's no respect. Not for the dancers, not for the bartenders, not for the waitresses. None of us. They treat us like trash when we're here to entertain them. None of us deserved to be insulted or groped or… assaulted. Which happens more often than you think."

"I'm not surprised," Boomer grumbled, glaring at Brick in the distance. "Some people get treated like shit for no reason. I don't even know. It's like… some… stupid superiority thing or something. Like, they have to prove they're in charge just to make themselves feel better. So they pick on everyone else, especially the weaker ones, or well, those they _think_ are weaker, just to prove they're the best. The biggest, baddest, bestest douche in town. Yeah, some gig."

It took a second for Boomer to realize that the waitress was staring at him, both worried and somewhat impressed. Boomer gripped his mug and looked down at the table.

"Yeah, that's why I don't talk much," Boomer said weakly.

"I like you," the girl said. Boomer almost broke his mug with his bare hands.

"What?" he choked. The girl sat up and pulled out her notepad. She started jotting something down.

"Do you, like, wanna do coffee or something? And just… talk?" she asked.

"Um…"

"Here's my number," the girl said, ripping a piece of paper from her notepad and sliding it in front of Boomer.

"I…" Boomer looked down at the number. A real phone number. A _girl's_ phone number. A girl with pretty brown hair, a laugh like tingling bells, and – he glanced at her eyes – big robin's-egg-blue eyes. Boomer almost gagged. He panicked.

"I don't have a phone," he admitted, his stomach flipping painfully.

"Well, you know where I work," the girl said simply. "You can always come here. It's not the best location, but it's something."

"What are you doing tonight?" Boomer asked, louder than necessary. Actually, it came out louder and more desperate than he intended. Actually, he didn't want to say it at all. He blushed. Thankfully, though, the girl giggled.

"I get off at eleven," she replied. "That's in, like, three hours. It's a while, but—"

"I can wait?" Boomer said, not meaning to make it a question. The girl looked at him, mildly surprised. She nodded and stood up.

"Okay," she said. "Get comfy, then."

"Thanks," Boomer nodded.

"And since you've barely touched your beer, do you want something else?" the girl asked, pointing at his mug. Boomer sighed with relief.

"Anything. A Pepsi."

"Okay," the girl swiped the mug from his hands, grazing his fingers with hers longer than Boomer was comfortable with. She was about to head back to the bar before she stopped and turned back at him. She rolled her eyes, as if she forgot something.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Boomer," Boomer answered.

"Boomer…" the girl said, letting his name touch her lips.

"And you?" Boomer asked.

"Robin," the girl replied. "Robin Snyder."

"Robin," Boomer repeated softly. He thought of the twittering birds of spring: church bells ringing in harmony with their morning song, golden rays of sunshine warming their red breasts, dew glistening on their chestnut-brown feathers… Before he knew it, Boomer found himself grinning, staring blissfully at the numbers on the little piece of paper. Then, he sensed Robin watching him. He glanced at her, and then shuffled in his seat, feeling his face redden. But she just smirked and headed off to get his drink.


End file.
